The Baker Street Irregular
by Ryah Ignis
Summary: Nine-year-old Alice has just lost her mother. Sherlock Holmes faces the greatest challenge of his career-parenthood. Ensemble cast and their reactions to Baker Street's newest addition. Parent!lock Cover by the lovely catharsis @ The Dark Arts Forum.
1. Chapter 1

**The Accidental Family**

Mycroft did not get a lot of headaches. Those that he did get were usually caused by his thrill-seeking little brother, but not this time. Pressing his face into his hands, he took a moment to mentally clear his mind of all clutter. The pulsing in his skull already dying down, he leaned back in his chair and waited for it to stop completely. The country could surely manage a few minutes without his mechanisms.

_Rap rap rap_.

Or not. Eyes sliding open, he braced his hands on his desk, headache already crowding out a good portion of the problems jostling for attention in his head,

"What is it?" he called out.

The door opened and Anthea ushered in a curly-haired little girl into his office.

"What is it?" he repeated, a little irritated now.

His eyes flicked over the scene, quietly deducing. Already he knew that Anthea had bad news she was unwillingly going to tell share, and the little girl had just finished attending a funeral. Well, this wasn't adding up to be a pleasant afternoon.

~o0o~

What was wrong with her?

Alice hugged her knees more tightly to her chest underneath the too-big pea coat that her aunt had all but thrown at her as they'd rushed out the door.

She wanted to grieve like her aunt, silent tears down ridged cheeks, or like her cousins, wailing loudly in the too large, nearly empty church. But no matter how hard she tried, all she could summon was a dull ache that spread through her entire body. Her aunt's words from before rang in her mind. "Why won't you just _feel_?"

Mum would have never said that. Mum would have brushed her hair out of her face and told her it was okay not to feel because she knew Alice would if she could. Mum would have taken her away from the uncomfortably loud displays of emotion. She would have tried to understand, and even though it failed, it would always make Alice feel better. But none of that mattered because Mum was dead and Alice was alone and she _just couldn't cry_.

So when the smartly dressed men in suits appeared at her mother's gravesite and led her away from her unprotesting aunt, Alice didn't feel a thing.

~o0o~

John, quite frankly, was sick of being kidnapped. Once, fine. Twice, really? But three times? He needed a new flat-mate.

"Mycroft's in," the said flat-mate growled, readjusting the knocker.

John groaned. The last thing he wanted was to have a conversation with the oldest Holmes brother when he was half dead on his feet.

"What is it?" snapped Sherlock, all but storming into the flat.

John followed a bit more calmly. As unsettling as it was, he owed his life, several times over, to Mycroft's CCTV access. Besides, he could care less why the man was there. He just wanted to go to bed.

Standing next to Mycroft was a little girl, maybe about nine or ten, wearing an oversized pea coat. It was an image that John had thought he'd never see—Mycroft willingly within six feet of someone under the age of twenty.

"You remember the Wisteria case, don't you?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"And how long ago was that?"

"Ten, ten and a half years—oh."

John had seen Sherlock face criminals twice his size without batting an eyelash, bombs without missing a beat and murderers without slowing his step. Now, he looked positively terrified. His eyes locked on the little girl in the look John had come to recognize as the one he took on when he surveyed a possible witness.

"Mummy always did want grandchildren," said Mycroft, looking much more pleased than he had a right to be.

"You came from a funeral," Sherlock said rather than address his brother. "Your mother's?"

Voice surprisingly even for someone who had just lost her mother and had the fact shoved back in her face, the girl responded.

"Yes."

Father and daughter stared at each other for a very long moment, unblinkingly.

"What's your name?" John asked, once it had become apparent that Sherlock wasn't going to ask.

"Alice," the girl said.

Still silence.

"So, is she staying?" John finally asked.

"Sherlock's her legal guardian."

He'd never thought he'd see his flat-mate as a father. Alice plunked herself down in Sherlock's chair to better examine her father.

"That explains the hair," she said. "Mum's was straight."

"It's a dominant trait. I'm not surprised it showed up."

Their staring contest continued. Alice didn't shift in her seat, didn't even bat an eyelash. She just stared at him as intently as he did her. Mycroft rolled his eyes. John was still trying to process the idea of Sherlock Holmes as a father.

"Maria was a good woman."

"She was sick for a long time."

Sherlock abruptly got to his feet and walked into his room. The door slammed behind him.

"Make sure she makes it to next month in one piece," Mycroft drawled. "Child Services are a bore.'

With that, he exited just as swiftly as his brother had. Alice got up and wandered over to the kitchen to look at the experiments Sherlock had left lying about.

"Right," John said, checking his watch. He could feel a headache coming on. "Do you want to get something to eat?"

Alice nodded solemnly.

"Sherlock? We're going to Angelo's."

The door remained shut and Sherlock didn't answer. John barely suppressed a groan. If his flat-mate thought that Alice was going to become his responsibility, he was dead wrong.

"Come on," he said.

Mrs. Hudson stopped them before they reached the door.

"What did Mycroft want? He's always in such a foul mood, but this one was worse, wouldn't you say, dear?" she asked of Alice.

"Mrs. Hudson, Alice. Alice, Mrs. Hudson. She's our landlady."

Mrs. Hudson's eyebrows jumped at the use of 'our' and John realized that he'd made a mistake.

"Did you two adopt?"

Alice giggled, and John resisted the urge to whack his head against the wall.

"I'm Sherlock's daughter," Alice provided.

Mrs. Hudson made a noise that sounded like a dying goose and retreated into her apartment, still laughing.

"You're not going to, I dunno, call him Dad?"

"He didn't seem really happy about it," Alice pointed out. "This'll help him ease into it."

It was odd. She was very much like her father, but at the same time, she was very different. She understood human nature better—or, at least, chose to utilize it more often. She was every bit as articulate as he imagined a nine or ten-year-old Sherlock to have been.

"How old are you?" John asked conversationally, trying to remember exactly how one was supposed to talk to a Year Five as they stepped out on to the street.

"Nine. Will I hurt your shoulder?" she asked, taking his hand.

So shocked by the completely un-Sherlock (even as a kid) move, it took John a second to register the second most extraordinary thing.

"How did you know?"

"Same way I knew you were overseas. Afghanistan or I—"

"How?" he pressed.

The girl shrugged. "I see, the information goes to my head, that pops out of my mouth. I don't have a system."

So Sherlock's gift was at least partially natural. He must have figured out how he reached his conclusions later in life.

John opened the door to the restaurant, and Alice let go of his hand to hurry inside out the cold.

"John!" boomed Angelo, running over as soon as he crossed the threshold. "Who's the lovely girl, hmm? A date?"

"Alice. She's Sherlock's daughter."

Angelo blinked a few times before his face broke into a large grin,

"He never told me! No need to pay tonight.'

While Angelo set about shoving everyone else's meals to the back in lieu of serving them, John decided to find out what he could about Alice.

"So."

"You want to know about Mum, right?" Alice looked sad for the first time. "She always used to talk about him. Sherlock Holmes. The wonderful man. She loved him, even after he left her. Even after he told her it was all just for a case."

Alice's mouth twisted into a wry grin.

"I don't understand. I—I'm wrong."

She dropped her gaze to the ugly patterned tablecloth.

"No, you're not," John said after a moment's hesitation. "There isn't _wrong_. Not in people."

Alice smiled, the first genuine smile that John had seen.

It was an hour and half before they made it back to 221B. Alice was in considerably better spirits. John was still worried about Sherlock. He didn't want Alice to go into foster care, or worse, to the aunt that had planted the idea that she was 'wrong' into her head.

He pulled open the door to find Sherlock sitting in his favorite chair, drawing his bow back and forth across the strings of his violin. John retreated hastily to his room.

A half hour later, he peeked out to see Alice sitting cross-legged in front of her father's chair, the violin placed carefully under her chin. Sherlock murmured a few instructions John couldn't hear, and Alice hesitantly plucked away at the strings. John grinned quietly to himself. Somehow, the accidental family might just make it.

* * *

A/N: Alice's mother, Maria, is very much like Janine. Sherlock needed information, and she was the best way to get it. The feeling was entirely one-sided.

Please leave a review!


	2. Chapter 2

**The Rooftop Mystery**

They'd fallen into an odd routine over the past week and a half. Alice was mostly quiet, but she helped Sherlock with his less complicated experiments, and she simply observed the more complicated ones. She wasn't annoying, and the questions she did ask were useful ones.

It had taken him a long time to get used to the idea of having her around full time. Sherlock hadn't been lying when he had said that Maria was a good woman. She'd been one of the few people in his youth he'd been able to stand. It had just been unfortunate that she'd been wrapped up in a nasty string of murders—her brother had been the killer. Alice had the same inquisitive nature that had marginally endeared him to her mother, but unlike Maria, she had the brains to put it together. Reluctantly, he accepted that she would be a permanent fixture in his life. It could have been worse.

"Don't get it on your skin," he cautioned as Alice stumbled carrying a nearly full test tube.

He pointedly ignored John's smug expression at the concern. Before Alice could do anything with the test tube, his phone went off. He checked it, and all but leapt out of his chair.

"Lestrade has a case!"

It had been nearly a fortnight since the DI's last call, and he'd been longing for a new adrenaline rush ever since the second the last case had ended.

"You can't bring a nine-year-old to a crime scene!" John protested, tugging his coat over his shoulders.

"Why not?"

"Sherlock, she's just a kid, she can't see whatever it is that Lestrade needs you to see."

"Please?" Alice said, batting her eyelashes.

With the puppy-dog expressions from both father and daughter assaulting him, John relented.

"If it's dangerous, I'll take her home," he said.

"No you won't," chirped Alice, earning her an approving look from her father.

Sherlock resolutely pretended not to notice that Alice had flipped up her coat collar, and begrudgingly accepted her hand. It wouldn't do to have her run off and get hit by a car. Child Services was not an organization he wanted to deal with. He noticed John smirking, and aimed a kick at him, but Alice tugged him down the steps before he could manage it.

One cab ride later, and they found themselves standing outside 16 Triton Street, identifiable by the yellow crime scene tape stretched across the grisly scene. Despite John's halfhearted objections, Sherlock secured Alice's hand in his own and towed her through the crowd of shocked onlookers. He ducked under the tape and joined Lestrade.

"You called?" he asked, dropping Alice's hand.

"It looks like a suici—Sherlock, why've you got a kid?"

"My daughter. Why did you need me here if you're so sure it's a suicide?"

Lestrade could not have looked more surprised if he'd said Alice was the crown princess of Norway. Still hung up on the 'daughter' point, he stared at Sherlock, switched his gaze to Alice, and then back again.

"You've got—"

"Yes."

Lestrade cleared his throat. Sherlock could see his curiosity and his need to do his job battle for attention on his face before his work got the best of him and he decided not to ask.

"I'm not sure it is. He's on his back. Who jumps off a roof backwards? Besides, there's no note."

Sherlock, Alice following along like a strange mismatched shadow, pushed his way through the forensics crew. Rather than put his skills to the test or go up to the roof, he turned to Alice.

"What happened?" he asked her, curious to see what she would make of it.

"He jumped," Alice said.

"No," Sherlock said, doing his best not to sound condescending but failing miserably. "That's a preconceived notion based on your expectation, Lestrade's comment and by simply looking. Tell me about the victim."

Alice knelt down next to the body and looked over it.

"Wife, happily married, two kids, daughters. Twins."

"Good," he said. "Now, how did you get it?"

Alice's brow furrowed and she sat back on her heels, chewing on her lip.

"I don't know.'

"It's a process," he explained. "Your brain just happens to put information together faster than the average person's does. But there are steps, and if you can't show the steps, they won't believe you. Or, they'll accuse you."

Alice narrowed her eyes at the offending corpse. A minute went by, then two.

~o0o~

How had she known it? Rewinding her brain was not a simple task. She made her deductions and moved on, always! It was more impressive to her mother when she figured something out without knowing _how_. Feeling Sherlock's gaze on the back of her neck, Alice closed her eyes and thought. How did she know he was married? A ring, that made sense. She'd noticed his ring. But how did she know he was happy? The ring was carefully cared for. Kids, how had she gotten that? Her eyes flew to the tattoo on his left arm. It was fairly new, and there were two names: Annamarie and Kate. Undeniably women's names, and if they weren't his wife and mother, then they had to be children. Inked on at the same time.

"Not twins. Not enough information. The wedding ring's clean, two girl's names on his arm, could be kids."

"Very good," he said.

Alice saw the Detective Inspector's—Lestrade, had Sherlock said?—mouth drop open as the three of them entered the building and made their way to the roof.

"A full forensics team has already been up here," Sherlock said. "They've gathered obvious evidence. You need to notice small things."

The roof was empty, with no obvious signs of a struggle. Alice strayed close to the edge and looked down. The heights didn't bother her.

"It's like Detective Inspector Lestrade said," she said quietly. "Why would anyone jump backwards?"

She scanned the scene. The man's half eaten lunch lay on the ledge, and there were a few scuff marks on the edge of the roof.

"Why only eat half the lunch?" Alice asked.

A ghost of a smile (if it could be called that) crossed Sherlock's face.

"He didn't jump. He fell. Look at the scuff marks. They're the same color as the dirt on his shoes. He must have backed up, then lost his balance and plunged over the edge."

Alice beamed. It had taken her longer than it usually did, but now there was a method to her madness. It wasn't just ESP or something equally stupid. It was an answer based on real facts and real evidence.

"That should be it, Lestrade," her father said.

The Detective Inspector just stared for a very long time. Alice gave him a little wave before they headed back downstairs to bundle into a cab.

She was going to be a consulting detective.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Babysitter**

"You're kidding."

"No, I'm not."

John could almost picture the other man dragging his fingers through his hair, already defeated but not quite giving up the hope that he could win.

"It's just one night."

"Yeah, and it's my night off."

Alice's head poked up over the top of Sherlock's chair, where it appeared she had taken up permanent residence. John shifted the phone to his right hand.

"Please, Greg. I don't want to take her with us. It might get dangerous. And I'm afraid she might blow something up if we leave her here unattended."

"And Sherlock isn't?"

"You know him. He'd consider it a success."

Alice giggled, apparently already having deduced what he was up to. It was hard enough living with one hyper-observant detective who acted like a nine-year-old. It was another thing entirely to have to worry about the well-being actual nine-year-old.

"How dangerous?" Greg sighed.

"Very."

"Fine. I'll be there at six."

"You're a lifesaver, Greg."

~o0o~

Greg had to admit that it was half curiosity and half concern for Alice's well-being that drove him to accept a babysitting job. He was a Scotland Yard detective, for goodness's sake! He arrived promptly at six and was greeted by the sound of a very clumsily played violin. John opened the door and waved him inside.

Alice smiled at him and continued to wreak havoc on the violin, perched in the seat Sherlock usually took. Across from her, Sherlock was trying but failing to arrange his features into something akin to appreciation.

As soon as he spotted Greg, he sprang from his chair and all but ran to the door.

"Don't let her touch anything in the kitchen!" Sherlock cried on his way out.

"And don't let her stay up too late," John added.

The door slammed shut behind them. Greg silently prayed that he wouldn't get a call telling him to go help them, because bringing a nine-year-old to an active crime scene was probably frowned upon.

"Have you had dinner yet?" he asked.

Alice looked surprisingly well-fed, considering that her father forgot that he needed to eat on a regular basis. John must have had a lot to do with it.

"Nope," Alice said, swinging her dangling legs back and forth.

He started towards the kitchen, but then thought better of it. There was a fifty percent chance he'd feed her something good and a fifty percent chance that he'd poison the both of them accidentally.

"Probably a good idea," Alice said wisely, bouncing out of the chair. "We could get takeout."

The growling of his stomach answered the question for her. Alice giggled and took his hand. She led the way out of the flat and past about three takeout places before finally stopping atone.

"It's my favorite," she explained.

"Your dad's not much of a cook, then?"

"He is when you get him to be. He understands the chemical reactions, I think. Can't follow a recipe to save his life. John's specialty is peanut butter and jelly."

Greg tried to decide if she was joking or if, being nine, she really did think that peanut butter and jelly was a grand delicacy. Finally, he came to the conclusion that there was absolutely no way he could know one way or another.

Meal in hand, the strange duo made their way back to the flat. Alice chattered on like any kid her age (Greg should know, he had two, all grown up) but the topics she talked about were wildly different. She was just explaining how Sherlock was having her memorize the periodic table when they reentered the flat.

"How about a bit of telly?" Greg asked.

He wasn't tired of her incessant chatter, quite the opposite really. There had been a movie he'd been planning to watch on his night off for weeks. It didn't come on the telly very often anymore.

Alice eagerly settled herself in her chair. (He couldn't really call it Sherlock's chair anymore that she had clearly appropriated it. The mental image of her scooting in and forcing Sherlock out made him snort in a rather undignified fashion.)

"What is it?" Alice asked.

She'd unfolded her takeout container into a sort of plate and expertly balanced it on her knees. Greg didn't dare search through their kitchen cabinets for plates lest he find something illegal, stomachache inducing, or both.

"Star Trek," Greg said.

He'd expected a very different reaction. Rather than point out the outdated special effects, plot holes that only a junior consulting detective could spot or deducing what was going to happen next, Alice sat with her eyes glued to the screen. She laughed once or twice (usually at something Mr. Spock had said) and even managed a look of horror when something bad happened. Greg found himself watching the girl's face rather than the screen. He'd seen the movie what felt like hundreds of times, but he'd never been so shocked by someone watching it before. He found himself thinking about what it would be like to watch a movie with Sherlock, before deciding it would be utterly unbearable.

All too soon, the credits rolled and Alice sank back in her chair with a content look on her face. She watched until every last name had flown by and the screen cut to commercial.

"I liked Mr. Spock," she declared.

Trust Alice to surprise him again. His girls had both preferred Admiral (or Captain) Kirk.

"Why?"

"He's like Sherlock," the little girl said as if it were obvious. "I'm going to try to make him say illogical."

Greg snorted.

"I guess that makes you Kirk," Alice said thoughtfully. "And John's Doctor McCoy."

Alice decided that they should turn the living room into the flight deck of the Enterprise. Greg, already used to such things, helped her construct it.

When John and Sherlock returned, Sherlock nursing a black eye, it was to find Scotland Yard's finest ducking and weaving amongst their overturned furniture, battling evil Klingons at the orders of Captain Alice.

* * *

Star Trek! I dunno, I just think Greg would be a fan. Please leave a review.


	4. Chapter 4

**Cold Case**

Alice liked the days best when Sherlock decided he wanted to go into the Yard and take a look through the unsolved case files. There she was completely free to throw out her opinions and get them listened to without hearing one of the actual detectives scoff. Mr. Greg, as she had taken to calling the Detective Inspector, appreciated the help in live cases, but had taken her aside to explain that he couldn't register a nine-year-old as a consultant. Personally, Alice thought that was ridiculous. If she was cleverer than their detectives, why couldn't she be a consultan?. She didn't complain, in case, he changed his mind.

She grinned, following her father through the Yard. It was Mr. Greg's day off, so they had to be extra-careful not to upset anyone. Alice had zipped her lips before leaving the flat. She couldn't blurt out anything stupid, which was _really _hard.

"Can we get take-out?" she asked, knowing that Sherlock had the same resolve that she did when it came to overly greasy food—exactly none.

"On the way back to the flat," he assured her.

"What're you doing here?" said a sharp voice.

Alice didn't recognize either the woman who had spoken or the man that was standing beside her, but she could hardly mistake the tone. Alice made a snap decision.

"Daaaaaady," she said, mimicking the tone that she'd heard her cousins adopt when they wanted something. "When're we going to go? I'm booooored."

Sherlock didn't miss a beat in hefting her into his arms. Both the woman and the man's jaws dropped. Alice hid her self-satisfied smirk in the collar of her father's coat.

"Just a little longer, sweetheart," he said, easily slipping into the persona that she'd provided for her, though he still looked as if the word 'sweetheart' physically pained him to say.

"You…" said the woman, gaping.

"Father," said the man, eye twitching.

"Alice, meet Seargant Donovan and…Anderson."

Now even more pleased with herself now that she had a face to match with the 'Anderson' Sherlock was always going on about, and for having pulled one over on him, Alice grinned.

"I'm helping Daddy with the cold cases," she announced, even going so far as to make her voice higher.

Donovan's eyes narrowed.

"Who's letting civilians near the cold cases?"

"Lestrade. And I'm hardly a civilian—I'm practically on police payroll."

The two actual Scotland Yard employees skidded past them almost at a run, unable to form coherent responses.

As soon as they rounded the corner, Alice burst out laughing and to her surprise, so did Sherlock.

"That'll keep them busy for a week," he said.

"Are we going to keep it up?" Alice asked.

She wouldn't mind the acting practice, and besides, it would be worth it to see that expression on their faces all the time.

"Absolutely. Now, cold cases."

~o0o~

No matter how many cups of coffee she downed, Sally Donovan could hardly keep her eyes open. She'd been working a case with Greg last night, chasing a pair of criminals all over London, but they hadn't managed to catch them.

"Coffee?" asked Philip, handing her a fresh cup.

He knew exactly how she took it—two sugars and more cream than strictly necessary. Sally thanked him, and dumped tossed away her empty cup in a nearby trash can.

"Late night?"

"Bloody crooks can't take a night off," she said, taking a grateful sip of the coffee.

Philip chuckled.

"You'd think they'd want to rest."

The two fell into step beside each other. Philip ranted about the football match she'd missed and how poorly it was played. Happy she didn't have to think of anything to say while running on empty, she let Philip keep talking until she spotted _him_.

Sally had first met Sherlock Holmes four years ago as a half high moron in a bar fight she'd been called in as a constable to break up. He'd spent a night or two in a cell until the drugs had run their course, but he still harbored an unwarranted grudge.

Two years ago, she'd run into him again, but this time as Greg's consultant on an unsolvable case. She'd been disturbed by his almost childlike glee when faced with the dead man and his callous regard to the poor man's family. She'd been more than disturbed that Greg had hired such a man.

There had never been any doubt in her mind that one day, they would follow a trail, and that trail would lead directly to Sherlock Holmes.

"What're you doing here?" she asked scathingly.

Honestly, the man spent more time in the police station than half the new recruits did.

Her dislike immediately changed to shock as the girl he was with called him 'Daddy.' The Freak had a kid? She and Philip exchanged mildly horrified expressions.

It wasn't entirely impossible. She definitely had his hair, and the intensity in her eyes were the same even with the high voice and the sweet expression. Still, Sally had a very difficult time believing something like that.

Together, she and Philip booked it out of the hallway as fast as they could. Sally nearly knocked him over in shoving him aside to unlock her office.

"He's a father," choked Philip as soon as they reached the relative safety it provided. "He had—what—a wife? Girlfriend? Date? _Ever_?"

And yet, she was still single.

"Apparently," was all she could get out.

Both of them shuddered. Sally dropped into her chair and attempted to get some work done, but her mind was on the poor, probably maladjusted little girl who was the offspring of the strangest man she'd ever had the misfortune of meeting. Philip sat opposite of her, not trying to make conversation, but obviously mulling over the same thing.

"I mean," he said, about a half hour later. "What person in their right mind would let him within twenty feet of a child?"

Sally shrugged.

"Someone dead."

Neither one would ever guess how closely to the truth they'd strayed.


	5. Chapter 5

**School**

It had been five and half weeks with Alice peacefully existing at 221B before John finally broached the subject.

"When are we going to get you signed up for school?" he asked, tugging off his jacket and hanging it up on the hook between Sherlock's overcoat and Alice's pea coat.

Alice's head snapped up from the chemical mixture she was spreading on a bit of newspaper. She lowered the goggles Sherlock forced her to wear. ("They look silly!" "So would you with chemical burns.")

"What for?" they asked simultaneously.

"Sherlock can teach me anything I need to know!" Alice continued to protest.

John rubbed his temples, and decided to direct his next attack at Sherlock.

"You don't even know who the Prime Minister is.'

"Does it matter?"

"I've shown you Star Wars five times and you still ask me who Darth Vader is. Point is, you can't just go deleting things you think aren't important. Besides, you're not even a qualified teacher."

Alice's expression soured.

"They don't like me at school," she said crossly, ignoring him in favor of adding another few dabs of chemical to her mixture. "It's too easy and everyone else is stupid."

"Alice," he admonished her halfheartedly.

"They're _slow_," she corrected herself, glowering at him and wrinkling her nose. "And dull. I want to stay here with you."

Alice had learned fairly quickly that while the doe eyes had little to no effect on Sherlock, they made John cave ninety percent of the time. He hardened his resolve against the all too pitiful expression.

"I'm going to set up a meeting with a school," he replied to her silent plea. "No use complaining."

Now, what schools were in the area?

~o0o~

Both Alice and her father silently sulked in the cab all the way to Channing School. John had been serious. It had only taken him a day to set up a meeting with Headmistress Dunbar. Alice couldn't believe they were forcing her to go to boring, ordinary _school_. Mum had, but that was only because she had to work. Sherlock had all the time in the world when he wasn't on a case, and when he was, well, she could learn more on a crime scene than she ever could at a school.

"It'll be fine," said John.

Yeah, right. Alice smoothed down the same checked skirt she'd worn to her mother's funeral. ("First impressions, Alice—are you listening to me?")

Thankfully, Sherlock was firmly on her side. He was too familiar with his own methods to let her know anything about himself that he didn't want her to know, but Alice could tell he hadn't had a very pleasant school experience himself. He wasn't telling, and Alice wouldn't ask.

That was his business-until she figured it out and used it against John, that is.

"How did I get into a private school?" she asked John.

She was hardly the 'pleasure to have in class' type. Most teachers simply signed her report card with 'For the love of all things good make this year go fast' or one of its variants.

John snorted. "Your test scores are excellent and your uncle could have Big Ben dug up and have it put in his backyard if he wanted to. Believe me, you're fine."

Alice huffed and crossed her arms. Silence reigned in the cab for the rest of the ride, and the walk into school.

Headmistress Dunbar was every bit the stereotypical headmistress. Her thick black hair streaked generously with grey was piled in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. A pair of rectangle glasses sat squarely at the end of her long nose. Her clothing was completely immaculate.

Alice disliked her on sight.

"You must be Mr. Holmes," she said crisply, offering John her hand.

"Dr. Watson, actually. We spoke on the phone?"

"Oh yes, I remember. This is Alice, I suppose. Hello."

Alice silently accepted the handshake, doing her best to paste a happy expression on her face. Judging by the one on John's, she hadn't succeeded.

"Hello."

"A little shy, I see," she replied, looking down that hawkish nose at Alice. "You'll grow out of it."

Alice disagreed. Her quietness had nothing to do with shyness and everything to do with the stupidity of the general population. Seeing as that wasn't going to improve, Alice doubted her 'shyness' would either.

"Come along, then."

She led them out of her office and back into the hallway. They were polished, white, and ultimately, boring.

Alice dropped behind Headmistress Dunbar and John, still scowling. Sherlock fell into step beside her.

"You've got to do this."

"No I haven't. You didn't go very long, did you?"

He didn't answer, and Alice fixed him with her best approximation of his interrogative stare.

"Alice, he said," do you want to end up like me?"

"Yes!" she said earnestly.

Flushed with pride that she'd managed to earn herself another smile, Alice barged on.

"I want to be exactly like you."

She wanted to be clever, she wanted to solve crimes, she wanted to grow up and have a flat mate just like John Watson, who didn't care when he found fingers in the sink. Alice wanted more than anything to be just like him.

~o0o~

He was, without a doubt, one of the sharpest people to have ever lived. He'd single-handedly solved hundreds of crimes that baffled the police without taking a single step out of his flat. Sherlock Holmes was smart, he was brilliant, and he knew it.

But he didn't want Alice to be like that. She had just the smallest chance of having John's heart if he did this right. And he did want her to have a heart as well as a brain. He'd seen the pain caused by caring, but he'd seen the good that came of it, too.

"Well, I don't," he said finally, accepting her hand. "At least give it a try, even if it is insufferable."

Alice blew a curl of hair out of her eyes with a huff.

"Fine."

Was he going to be expected to help her with her homework?

* * *

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	6. Chapter 6

**Jim From IT**

It was the last day of Alice's blessed freedom before she had to start at Channing School, and Sherlock wanted to spend it at the morgue. Which was fine by Alice, because she liked to sit and watch him work no matter what he was doing, but she had hoped that Mr. Greg would drop by withy a case. No such luck.

"Sherlock? When're we going to eat?" she asked.

Her short legs dangled over the side of the stool, heels clicking as she swung them back and forth. He tossed a couple of bills her way.

"Cafeteria's up two flights and to your right," he said.

"I'll bring you coffee," Alice told him cheerfully.

She followed his instructions up to the dinner room.

It was fairly crowded, but thanks to Sherlock's direction, she was able to block out the majority of her deductions. It didn't take a super sleuth to figure out which people to avoid. The family members of people in wards were silent, staring into their cups of tea without a word. Alice ordered her meal and Sherlock's coffee and went to a table. Unfortunately, all of them were occupied, so she was forced to set about figuring out who would annoy her least.

She finally set her sights on what looked to be a couple. (If they weren't dating already, they would be soon judging by the way he kept touching her elbow and she kept giggling.) The man's most distinguishing feature was his stuck up black hair and the woman's was her long brown ponytail and kindly eyes.

Alice didn't bother asking if the seat was taken before plunking herself down in it.

"Oh, hello," said the woman, surprised by not unfriendly. "Are you lost?"

"Nope," Alice said, popping the P.

"Where are your parents?" the woman asked, peering around the room as if by mentioning them, she'd summon them.

"My dad's in the morgue," she said without thinking.

The woman clapped a hand over her mouth and the man made an undignified squeaking sound.

"I'm so sorry—"

It was only then that Alice realized where their thought processes had taken them.

"He's examining the bodies," she continued.

Both relaxed almost immediately. The woman gave her a shaky smile.

"I'm Molly."

"Jim. Hello!" the man introduced himself, waving awkwardly at her.

"Sherlock's mentioned you," Alice said suddenly, glancing up at Molly with renewed interest. "You let him into the morgue. Other people don't."

It was amusing to watch Molly put the pieces together. Her mouth dropped open.

"Alice, by the way," she added, smiling in a way she hoped was friendly.

The poor woman had just gotten a shock after all.

~o0o~

Why had no one thought to mention he had a daughter? Oh, someone was _definitely _going to be made into shoes. Or maybe a new throw rug—he'd set the last one on fire.

Jim idly picked at his fingernail, a habit he'd adopted as 'Jim from IT.' He'd seen every single file that existed on Sherlock Holmes, and some that didn't officially exist at all. Surely he would have known that he had a child. Jim mentally scowled. No doubt the oldest Holmes—minor position, _pfft_—had everything to do with it.

Ah, well. No use harping on what could have been. What was important was that fate had all but dumped the information in his lap. He'd be a fool not to take advantage of it.

"Oh," Molly replied, her voice suddenly dropping as if in disappointment.

It occurred suddenly to Jim that Sherlock Holmes was a very lucky man to have the attentions of his flat mate, a pretty pathologist, his daughter, and of course, those of a man equally as clever as himself.

"Sherlock Holmes?" Jim asked. "Molly was just telling me about him, weren't you, Molly?"

He nudged her shoulder affectionately and Molly smiled at him, a shy smile that made him want to gag.

Alice, who had been focusing intently on his face, suddenly spoke.

"He wants to know if you'd like to have coffee sometime. And not the rubbish stuff they have here. Good coffee."

He nearly spat out his drink (rubbish coffee indeed—it would take months to get the _taste _out of his mouth). The persona he'd put together had been designed for Sherlock Holmes. For a little girl to crack the code, she would have to be brilliant. If there had been any doubt in his mind that this truly was Sherlock Holmes's daughter, it dissipated.

"What?" Molly asked.

Ugh. He hadn't been planning on getting involved with Molly Hooper for at least another three or four weeks. He wasn't nearly done setting up the fake painting sell yet, so it would be _aaaaaages _before he could start playing the game. He also had to factor in Alice, which while being an interesting and useful plot development, really threw a monkey wrench in his scheming. There was nothing Jim wanted less than to entertain a lonely pathologist in his free time. _Do I talk too much, Jim? Is my mouth too small, Jim? Am I boring, Jim? Why do you like me, Jim? _And the answers! _Of course not, darling. Not at all, sweetheart. No, no, no, no, love. Because you're beautiful, Molly. _It made him want to strap _himself _to a bomb and what good would that do, hmm? Still, he slipped easily back into his persona like pulling on a familiar jacket.

"Erm…yeah. Uh. She's right? Would you—I mean, you don't have to, I 'spose—you're not, like, obligated or anything…would you like to get some….erm…not rubbish coffee sometime?"

Just enough shyness to make her blush and make him want to vomit. It would get the job done, though, and Jim knew he had a job to do.

"That would be lovely," Molly said, positively glowing.

She smiled, and Alice did too, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. Painfully obvious that she didn't understand how people could get so worked up about those kinds of things. She'd learn, just like Jim had, if she wasn't as dense as her father, to mimic their happiness one day.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

Alice shoved the plate across the table at him.

"Take 'em."

Oh yes. This would make things much simpler.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Warehouse**

Alice, running full pelt with arms, legs and coat flying with the ungraceful gait of someone who has grown a great deal recently, could barely keep up with Sherlock and John. Her lungs burned, but she kept up the pace, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

"I _told _you this was a bad idea!" John shouted as they turned into an alleyway.

Sherlock leapt for the fire escape, bringing the ladder down with a clang. Alice scrambled up first, then John and finally Sherlock himself. They rocketed across the fire escape at full speed. Sherlock took the lead in jumping across the gap between the fire escape and the nearest rooftop. As soon as he made it, he turned around and opened his arms. Alice took her cue and launched herself across the gap. She made it with about a foot to spare, but Sherlock still wrapped an arm securely around her waist.

"There's a warehouse on the riverside," Sherlock managed between breaths. "We can turn them around inside and be the predators instead of the prey."

"Lovely imagery," Alice gasped out.

Neither Alice nor John had any interest in arguing the point. They had no idea if the warehouse existed or not.

Alice started to lag behind, the exertion finally catching up with her. Sherlock scooped her up without missing a step. Alice clung to him monkey-style. He didn't slow his pace at all, but his breath came in increasingly shorter gasps.

"Turn!" he ordered.

The warehouse came into view when Alice craned her neck to see where they were going. It was abandoned, which made it a prime spot to catch the criminals that were currently chasing them.

"Alice, hide," Sherlock said, setting her back on the ground and handing her his mobile. "Call for help if you need it."

With that, he and John sprinted into the building. After a moment's hesitation, Alice ran after them, but not to catch up.

She kept running along darkened hallways, trying not to think of the horror movies (and their victims) she and Sherlock always mocked when they were on telly. Her heart pounded so loudly that she wouldn't be surprsised if they found her based on that and not on her thumping feet. Still, it only took her a minute to find what she needed.

Alice threw open the door to the closet and jumped inside. She eased the door shut and edged into the corner. She felt about her pockets for anything she could use as a weapon and came up with a pencil. One hand clenched around the pencil, ready to jab anyone who dared open the closet and the other tapped away on Sherlock's phone.

"Mr. Greg?"

"Alice? It's midnight, are you all right?"

"We're at a warehouse off that Thames. Near Banks Street."

Greg swore under his breath.

"We'll be there in ten minutes. Stay on the phone."

~o0o~

Sally's shift was particularly late tonight. She and Greg were going thorugh old case files, trying to piece them toegheter. Sally had shot him a mock disapproving look when his phone went off, but let him get it anyway.

"We'll be where?" Sally asked, fighting a losing battle with her coat.

"Sherlock's got himself in a bit of a pinch," Greg explained, hopping into his car and sticking the keys in the ignition.

"He's a fully grown man!"

"…with Alice."

Sally groaned. Of course. She'd said it, hadn't she? Sherlock Holmes was a ticking time bomb, a danger to himself, his unassuming flat-mate and his daughter. Alice was just a kid, a little, innocent (admittedly genius) kid who didn't deserve to get dragged into dangerous situations.

"You still with me, love?" Greg asked in the tone Sally recognized as the one he used with victims.

Her stomach rolled. Alice wasn't a victim of anything, yet—except maybe of bad parenting.

"I'm good. Keep your voice down, would you?" Alice breathed back.

Her voice was remarkably calm for someone in her situation.

"We'll be there in a few minutes," Sally promised.

Forget that this was a mini Freak in the making. There was a child in danger, and Sally Donovan _would not _allow a child to be in danger so long as she was around.

It was only Alice's light breathing on the other end of the line that kept the detectives calm. They arrived at the destination Alice had set with three minutes to spare until the time Greg had told Alice they'd arrive.

"Find her," Greg instructed, tossing her the phone. "And lock her in the car before getting back to me."

"Like that's going to stop her," Sally said, covering the receiver with one hand.

"Where are you, Alice?" she asked, turning back to the phone.

"Third floor," the girl whispered. "There's a closet on your right. Four—no—five doors down."

"I'm coming."

Sally dashed into the building at a sprint. She took the first set of stairs two at a time, praying that she'd entered the same staircase that Alice had. She reached the closet she hoped was housing the little girl.

"Alice? Sweetheart, are you all right?"

Alice emerged from the closet warily, brandishing a pencil as if it were a weapon.

"I'm fine. Where's Sherlock and John?"

Together, they hurried back downstairs into the car park. Sherlock, John, Greg and the two trussed up criminals were already standing there.

"Alice!" said John, positively relieved.

She jumped into his arms and he swung her around in a circle. Feeling as if she were intruding on a private moment, Sally retreated to Greg, who was quietly better securing the criminals.

"They've got to be more careful with her," Sally muttered. "I mean, chasing robbers?"

"John would never forgive himself if something happened to her—same with Sherlock, I think," Greg replied.

Sherlock reached over as if on cue and ruffled the little girl's hair. Sally narrowed her eyes.

She just hoped Alice wouldn't be the price to pay for one of their victories.

"Whatever you say, boss," she said, smiling at him.

Greg knew best, didn't he?


	8. Chapter 8

**Wrath of the Grandmother**

Sherlock's phone went off for the sixth time in under fifteen minutes, and all three occupants of 221B tensed up. Sherlock responded by curling up in a smaller ball on the couch, Alice drew the bow even harder over her father's violin, and John's hunt and peck keyboarding method became hunt and strike.

"Would you just answer the bloody phone?" John snapped, continuing to abuse the keyboard.

Sherlock checked caller ID and tossed the phone back on the coffee table without opening it.

"Who is it?" Alice asked, plucking out a particularly bad 'A.'

"Make your deductions," he growled.

Alice had spent thirteen weeks at 221B, and she hadn't seen him so sour the entire time.

"Just pick it up already," John said.

Sherlock flipped open the phone with an overly dramatic sigh.

"Hello? Yes. Yes. No, I didn't know. Yes, she's all right. No, I'm not driving all the way—yes, we'll be in tomorrow, don't bother—yes, I'm feeding her, _honestly. _Fine. Fine. Goodbye."

With that he closed his phone and his eyes, sinking back into the couch with a muffled groan.

~o0o~

Sherlock hadn't said any more about his mysterious phone call, so both Alice and John were both taken by surprise when they spotted the older couple standing outside the flat. Despite the fact that the woman was hammering on the bell as if her life depended on it, Sherlock refused to get up and greet her.

"You've never turned down a client without hearing them out," John said.

"I don't need to hear them out," Sherlock said. "I know perfectly well what they want."

"Well, I don't," Alice declared.

Deaf to Sherlock's protests, she bounded down the steps to the door and wrenched it open with more force than was strictly necessary.

"He's not accepting clients at the moment," she said diplomatically, mimicking John's patient tones the best she could. "So—"

"Alice!" the woman squealed. "Oh, it is, isn't it! Alice, such a lovely name, isn't it, dear? Alexander, look at her!"

She scooped Alice up in her arms and squeezed her tightly. Alice went limp, wondering vaguely if this was some poor misguided soul's attempt at kidnapping. It was surprisingly effective.

"Veronica—Veronica, I think you're making her uncomfortable," Alexander said, grabbing his wife by the arm and tugging her back.

Veronica huffed and released Alice with a great show of reluctance. Alice brushed herself off. She glanced over the pair of them swiftly and calculatingly. She lingered on Veronica's eyes, which—oh no.

"Don't you look like your father," said Veronica gently, her eyes tearing up a bit. "I never thought I'd have grandkids with those two. Mycroft's always buried in that bloody paperwork and Sherlock's running about London at all hours of the night. You have no idea how _happy _I was—"

"I think she does," Alexander put in.

He gave Alice an apologetic look. She immediately liked him. Alexander reminded her a bit of Mr. Greg. Exasperated, yes, but always willing to listen. It was a good trait to have when dealing with Sherlock on a regular basis.

"Sherlock didn't tell you we were coming, did he?" tutted Veronica knowledgably, every bit the mother hen. "The sense of that boy…"

With that, she brushed by Alice and made her way upstairs, presumably to reprimand Sherlock. As much as Alice wanted to see that, she also needed a short break from her overbearing…grandmother?

"Grandparents?" she guessed, glancing warily up the stairs after the domineering storm that was, presumably, Veronica Holmes.

"Right on the nose," said Alexander, tapping his own with a smile. "Veronica's a little…excited, in case you couldn't tell."

Alice quickly scanned him in more detail than she had before. He was a smoker, too, but a former one who only smoked when he was stressed. The bowtie around his neck (old fashioned, but still cool) was slightly crooked. Judging by the tremor in his right hand, there was a perfectly good reason for that. Alice decided upon hearing him speak that he wasn't laser-focused intelligent like his sons or granddaughter.

"What have you got, then?  
he asked, watching her shrewdly.

Slightly taken aback, Alice didn't answer. He laughed.

"I used to play that game with Mycroft and Sherlock, you know. Whenever I saw them get that look in their eyes, I had them tell me what they'd found. I think it helped them improve whatever it is they've got. It didn't come from me,"

"Oh," was all Alice managed.

He was person intelligent, then. He understood people in a way that Alice never could.

"ALEXANDER!"

"That's my cue. Coming?"

Alice followed her grandfather up the steps, watchful in case he stumbled. There was no need. Despite the ever present tremble in his right hand, he was perfectly steady on the way up.

"I let him be for six months," Veronica was saying, gesturing empathetically, "and he goes and gets himself a flat-mate and a daughter! What, are you going to tell me you got a dog next?"

John looked form Alexander, to Veronica, to Sherlock and then at last to Alice, as if he were trying to find any resemblance. Alice was struggling to find it herself.

"I want a cat," Alice put in.

She could almost see Veronica planning a Christmas present. Sherlock groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"That isn't very nice, dear," Veronica admonished. "I only just found out I had a granddaughter, let me spoil her a bit. And she's already so grown up! I did want a baby, but—"

"I didn't know," Sherlock defended himself.

The argument continued for quite some time, much to Alice's amusement. Alexander struck up a conversation with John about his work.

"The next time a family member pops up out of the woodwork," said Veronica at last, "give me a ring."

"I'm not planning on having it happen again," Sherlock said drily.

"Well, it happened once, didn't it? Alice, love, I'm so sorry about your mother."

She kissed Alice on the cheek before grabbing Alexander to drag him out the door.

"We'll be keeping up with you!"


End file.
